


Proposition and Consequence

by OldDVS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Humor, M/M, no sexy times in first chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-01-23 06:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: Road trip, holiday, slow burn and a great deal of conniving.  Greg starts off on his annual family reunion holiday and acquires Mycroft Holmes, who has dropped in with a proposition for him.  It's a mad scheme, or several, but it doesn't sound dangerous.  Could even be fun.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 55
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I have posted the first chapter of a work without being at least halfway through it and sure I'll see the end. This means very slow posting. But I think it's going to be fun.
> 
> Also, this work will be handicapped by me knowing nada about geography and other elements of England that might affect the story. My plan is to be vague as heck about places and distances, so as not to annoy those who actually live there. You may point out bits I need to fix and any major and irritating Americanisms & mistakes. Probably there will be so many minor ones that it's best to ignore them.

Greg Lestrade had been a copper for too many years. Not much surprised him anymore. So when he climbed into the cab of the lorry his cousin Phil had loaned him, he froze, but he didn't do anything but turn his head slowly towards the passenger seat and stare. Then he blinked. Mycroft Holmes? He blinked again.

But no, his eyes weren't wrong. There. Sitting casually. Leaning one elbow on the ledge of the open window. Was Sherlock's brother. Or his twin. He'd only ever seen the man wearing a three piece suit, but at the moment he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Very new looking jeans, and the most bland t-shirt in existence. It made him look awkward, and younger and rather ordinary. 

He's always suspected this Holmes could blend in anywhere. Here was proof. He wouldn't get a second look anywhere looking this innocuous. Greg has always wondered about how Mr. Holmes had began his years of public service. At times, he moved in a way most office drones never could. So, he'd always had his suspicions. It had made him treat the elder Holmes very very carefully. Seeing him like this rather solidified his suspicions.

Thinking about how the man appeared, Greg further decided that his general impression of Holmes as a good looking man was an illusion that Mycroft and his tailor worked very hard at creating. Elegant, well-groomed and blandly pleasant equaled good looks to a lot of people. But on a few occasions Greg had seen this man angry, upset, frightening, and once, even a little fearful. It took away his illusion of good looks. So did his current attire.

Right now, the man was projecting a positive, hopeful air and said quietly, “So sorry to impose, Detective Inspector, but might I have a word with you?”

“Will it take long? I have a schedule to keep,” Greg explained, reaching for the key. The interior of the vehicle reflected twenty years of hard service on the farm. So did the exterior, come to think of it. Not at all the sort of vehicle that Mycroft Holmes would usually deign to enter, surely? Something was up, then.

“I propose that you begin driving. I will explain as we go, and my car will follow.” He gestured back and Greg canted his eyes to look in the mirror. Big black car. Tinted windows. Right.

Greg started the lorry and very carefully pulled out into traffic.

“To save time, I know that you are driving to the annual family reunion of the descendents of Mark and Olive Chandler, your mother's grandparents. You have taken ten days of your annual leave for this purpose. You have several tasks along the way which require the use of this sturdy vehicle.” 

He paused as Greg changed lanes. Traffic wasn't too bad at this early hour of the morning, but Greg was grateful that when he most needed to have his attention on the road, Mr. Holmes was allowing him the quiet to do so. Observant of him, too. As expected of Sherlock's brother, of course. Greg checked the mirror again. The black car was at just the right distance behind. 

“I have come across several situations which require a very careful combination of factors to successfully resolve to my benefit. After analysis, I determined that the person best qualified to help me with a series of small problems was yourself. This is because the solution to my problems will also assist you in several of yours. Serendipitous, one might say.” 

Another tricky bit of lane change. They were both silent until it was sorted out. Greg was being extra cautious. He only drove this behemoth once a year. Like driving a tank. Greg gave a wiggle-wave of his fingers to indicate that he could give some of his attention again. 

“I, of course, had you investigated thoroughly when you first became associated with my brother. You have been instrumental in creating the man he is today. Your integrity and good sense are above the norm and when you do break the rules you do it to the least possible degree and for the greatest amount of good.”

“Erm. Thanks?” Greg said, his brow wrinkling as he tried to work out exactly where this was going. 

“I do apologize for this, but because of your relationship with Sherlock, there are regular accumulations into which has become a rather large file...”

“Which you read.”

“As it is updated. For example, I take note of your annual leave, as those times I know I must give more of my attention to Sherlock's activities.”

“So you already know where I'm going, who will be there and what color of socks they're wearing?” Greg noted that Mycroft looked slightly amused. Not used to seeing that on his face. Usually Holmes put on an expression suitable for whatever crime scene he had dropped in on, or just frowned at Sherlock. 

“My next statement might seem unusual. I would like you to invite me along on your holiday.”

Good thing there was only the black car following as his foot had hit the brake. He jerked it off and huffed out a surprised, “Whu?” Then, after a quick breath, he added, “I can't see it being your thing. Primitive doesn't half describe our holidays. And my kids will be there,” he added. 

“Yes, I know. Despite that, it is my hope that I will be mistaken for your current significant other.”

That did it. Greg pulled to the side of the road. Some things took all of your attention and it looked like this would be one of them. He turned to face his passenger. “That's not going to work. My family don't even know that I...uh....”

“Experimented during your misspent youth and have had relationships with men as well as women?”

That. Besides, “I haven't touched a man in twenty years!” Well, maybe nineteen. Not the entire time he was married. And only once since the divorce. And hadn't that been a disaster. When Holmes didn't say anything he sighed. Holmes. Hell, he was going to call him Mycroft in his mind. After all these years, Holmes meant Sherlock.

“So in what way does posing as my boyfriend benefit you?”

“So delicate,” Mycroft murmured. He spread his fingers in a self-depreciating gesture and said, “I made a mistake. Several years ago, I began a relationship of sorts with a female co-worker. Friends with benefits, with a side of manipulation on both sides, sometimes escalating...” He didn't say into what. “It has now been five years and she has...overreached herself. Inserted herself too far into my business. I had been maneuvering to extricate myself prior to the disaster last month by saying that I had found someone and wished to, so sadly, break off our arrangement. She wants proof that I have such an arrangement.”

“So you want to say you have one with a... man? Wouldn't she be...suspicious?”

“Not at all. She knows I am bisexual and...shall we say, fluid? We never promised each other an exclusive relationship and in fact, she has two other lovers, and a husband.”

“Ah..Ah?” What could one say to that!

“Her husband is bedridden and in a very exclusive facility. He knows and has given permission for her to find physical release he can't provide.”

“Not like he could do anything to stop her, I suppose?”

“Quite. And he does not care any longer. At any rate, I let her manipulate me into taking some leave, which she and several of our colleagues feel would be beneficial after our recent...troubles.”

Well, that was one way to describe a major clusterfuck.

“She gave up claim on me when I implied that I needed extensive attention during my 'crisis.' Too much work considering that she really has no emotional investment in my well-being. She will attempt to take some of my influence and assets while I am gone.”

“Attempt.” Greg glanced sideways. Mycroft's expression said he attempt would net her little, if anything.

“As part of the negotiations I had to agree to two weeks holiday.” He said it like it was a bad word.

“So going away with me, for all or part of it, is the plan?”

“Part of one plan. As I said, I hope this arrangement between us will solve several small difficulties.”

“Right.” Down the ramp, turn left. “I have to pick up water down here.”

“A good boyfriend would assist you,” Mycroft told him and as Greg stepped down out of the cab he exited from his own side. And damn if he didn't help load the cases of bottled water and drinks into the back with easy competence and more strength than Greg had expected. They were on their way promptly. Ahead of schedule. This never happened on these trips. 

“Thanks,” Greg said as he pulled out of the lot and got back on the main road. “Fruit and veg next.”

“Delightful.”

“You've told me why you're doing this for you. Why do you think I'll be on board?”

“Already? I haven't given a thorough explanation of my position.”

“Won't matter if you can't convince me to do something this crazy.”

“An excellent point. If you recall, I explained why I have an extensive file on you and your situations?' At Greg's nod he said, “As I was researching the feasibility of this course of action I cam across an interesting bit of information. Your daughters are coming to this reunion, I discovered. And that they have concocted a surprise for you. They're bringing their mother.”

“Oh, fuckin' hell,” Greg breathed, as he slowed down. Driving with Mycroft Holmes wasn't safe! He kept dropping these conversational bombshells.

“Yes. It appears they are trying to get the two of you back together.”

“Not going to happen!”

“I do think you might have avoided this particular incident if you had ever told your daughters the reason for your divorce.”

“Right. Oh, by the way, your mother is a total slag and was completely unable to even pretend to keep her vows?”

“You didn't think they would believe you.”

“Annette has them convinced it was only the one time and that she deserves a second chance. And the only reason she wants a second chance is she couldn't get her new victim to commit.”

“Well, he is married already,” Mycroft murmured. “I don't believe she knew that at the time she decided to grant you the divorce.”

“That must have been a shock,” Greg said, and he was slightly ashamed at how that made him feel. She deserved a bit of the pain she's served out.

“If you need actual data, I do have some video and surveillance records I could contribute.”

“How complete are those files you have on me, anyway?”

“Enough to have a record of over fifty instances of unfaithfulness in the last three years of your marriage,” Mycroft admitted. 

“Fifty?” Greg said. No place to pull over here or he would have done it again.

“I believe you were aware of the major relationships. She appears to be also quite adept at the one-night stand.”

“Fifty!”

“Do avoid that older Ford,” Mycroft said mildly.

Greg did so and then rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out the tension. 

“It was my thought that by showing up at the reunion with another person that she might be dissuaded. By showing up with a male, it might shock both the girls and your ex-wife into considering that they do not know you at all and that their attempt to manipulate you into returning to the marriage was doomed. This would have the advantage of easing the knowledge of your bisexuality in regards to your daughters. You have contemplated having to come out to them at some point?”

“Yeah. That ended well,” he murmured. 

“He wasn't worthy of you.”

Of course, Mycroft Bloody Holmes knew about that brief but disastrous relationship, too.

“If it helps, he's currently having legal troubles on a scale that has eclipsed his former troubles by quite a margin.” He caught Greg's look and said, “Not my doing, no. Just stupidity catching up with him.”

“Bound to happen eventually,” Greg said, with a touch of sarcasm.

“Given his track record, yes.”

Greg drove for some time in silence. They arrived at the warehouse, and once again Mycroft descended and with careful efficiency, helped load boxes of fruit and veg. When they were on their way again, Greg finally said, “What exactly did you have in mind?” 

“A small play, in which I take the part of a recent but already besotted boyfriend and you play the part of...whatever you wish. We could be at any stage of our relationship. If you are wondering, I thought a few kisses might be enough to convince anyone that we were involved.”

“A few kisses.” Kissing Mycroft Holmes. Oh, god. Really? He'd never even considered the man as someone interested in any sort of physical interaction at all. Sherlock's brother, after all. Although, he'd seen the man at the end of that incredible mess with their sister, somewhat broken, soldiering on. 

“And sharing a room or bed. My point is, whatever you are comfortable with, that part I will play.”

“And if I wanted....” Had that really fallen out of his mouth? 

“If you want me to play the part of a lover completely, I assure you, it is no hardship. I consider you very attractive.” 

Greg caught the fleeting expression in the other man's eyes. Mycroft probably didn't get all that many opportunities to date or shag or even flirt. What with his job and what's-her-name. He drove on silently again, thinking. 

“How gay do you want to play it?” Greg finally asked.

“Not very. Unless you wished it, of course. I act well enough, but might be difficult to sustain something flamboyant for a long period of time.” The thought was making Mycroft grimace. 

“Oh. Good.” He drove some move, finally switching over to a smaller road. The black car was still behind them. He'd have to make up his mind in the next twenty minutes, he realized, because he was next scheduled to pick up some tables and chairs at his cousin's place, and Tony or Susan would have questions.

“So, how long were you thinking we'd have to....”

“My understanding of your plans is that we collect these supplies today and arrive late tonight. Then were will be two days where you and two or three of your extended family get the camp ready, set up, have a bit of free time to yourself. Late Thursday and Friday, the family begins to arrive. A total of 78 people? The older set occupy some buildings, the younger ones camp out. Your daughters are to come Friday afternoon. There will be various activities during the weekend, most of them centered around food. Some stay over until Monday. Then, you and others tear down, clean up and leave Wednesday morning. After which you return home and collapse to recover from it all.”

Greg laughed, because that was exactly it. “So would you be with me all week?”

“If I could. It would most benefit my situation.”

“Right.” He thought about it as he continued to drive. The idea was starting to grow on him. Was it petty of him to realize that the most compelling thought was of his ex-wife's face when he showed up with his arm around the waist of a man? As the morning advanced, so had the traffic, but he was far enough out of the city now for it to be manageable. The black car trailed them a little less closely now. 

“Mycroft?” They'd never been on first name terms, but considering everything...he glanced aside to see how the man had taken the liberty. It had made him smile. That was good. Probably. “Is there anything else you should be telling me?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. For example, I am hoping to come across a young couple in difficulty and rescue them, thereby gaining certain political advantage.” Mycroft gave a tug to one sleeve of his t-shirt. “Also I am anticipating some alone time. Just sitting on the beach and looking at the waves, perhaps.”

“You haven't seen the beach.”

“Not warm this time of the year, of course, but a moment of solitude will be nice. Not that I am allowed true solitude. There will be long-distance surveillance at all times. A condition of my job, you realize.”

“Sounds depressing.”

“It's necessary. And usually means nothing. “

“So no sex on the beach.” Greg felt proud as he surprised a laugh out of Mycroft. 

“No, no sex on the beach,” the other man repeated emphatically. “You may steal a kiss,” he added.

“Or two?” he said, daringly.

“Or three.” It was said so primly that this time it was Greg who laughed.

He exited and turned right. “You've almost convinced me.”

“What might tip the scales in my direction?”

“Might be nice not to feel like I was playing a role all the time. Conversation, doing a few things together, a real vacation. Do you even know how to relax?”

“I think I can provide a pleasant experience,” Mycroft offered.

Greg could not believe this was going through his mind. Coming out his mouth. “Okay. You have yourself a temporary boyfriend.”

“Thank you. I am very appreciative,” Mycroft replied. And he smiled at Greg. 

Greg smiled back, because Mycroft looked quite pleased. Positive emotions livened his face up. The smile didn't make him look more attractive, almost the opposite, but it did add life to his normally austere features. 

It was going to be an interesting week.


	2. Two

Chapter 2

“When we stop to pick up the tables and chairs, I will obtain my cases from the car and send it on it's way.”

“Very organized,” Greg said, automatically glancing behind to see if the car was still in position behind them. Of course it was.

“Quite. Then, if you don't mind, I would then like to detour east. I know that all of your family contribute to this event. Some more than others,” he added knowingly. 

Greg, who contributed most of all, just waggled the fingers of the hand nearest the Holmes.

“So I feel it is only right to provide a few amenities myself.”

“Oh?” 

“A delicate matter, surprisingly enough. What to bring which would compliment the offerings, yet not overshadow any of them. Something no one else is bringing. Something needed.”

“Are you going to tell me what?”

“Would you rather it be a surprise?”

When it came to a Holmes? No. Their surprises were surprisingly horrifying. But on the other hand...maybe he could surprise Mycroft instead. So he said,“Sure.”

Mycroft blinked. Greg felt a twinge of pride. They stopped for a coffee and to get rid of the results of the first two cups Greg had inhaled before dawn. 

It was amazing, really, driving along with Mycroft Holmes in the other seat. The man wasn't saying much. Occasionally he brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Those gray eyes ranged from the road to the ranks of houses and developments, to the almost-blue sky, to the mirror to check the car behind. Always watching, but also just quietly thinking, apparently. Greg found himself looking to his left more than he should, given the current level of traffic. His made inroads on his own coffee.

They arrived at his cousin's house. It was a weekday, and he was surprised but grateful that there was nobody home. He threaded carefully through the alley to the shed. He had the key. He swung out of the cab, glad to stretch his legs again. The black car pulled up behind. While Greg wrestled the padlock off the shed door, Mycroft had gone back to the car and retrieved a bag and a suitcase. He had a word with the driver, and then carried the cases to the lorry just as Greg opened the back. He placed his luggage next to Greg's own two bags on the right, and then helped load seven long folding tables and fifty folding chairs. Greg fetched them from the shed and passed them up to Mycroft, who made very tidy stacks designed not to shift in transit.

“Changed your mind about this lark?” Greg asked as they climbed back into the cab.

“Not yet.” Mycroft's hair was still tidy but a bit of sweat gleamed at his hairline. Other than that, it was as if he hadn't been doing anything but sitting in his chair all day. 

Once they were underway again, the black car turned left when they turned right. “Where to?” Greg asked. As Mycroft told him, Greg realized that he could smell the faint scent of a woodsy odor. Mycroft's deodorant was doing an excellent job. He smelled great. Greg was not so sure of his own smell. He'd been expecting to travel alone and slapped on the minimal requirements for the day at an ungodly hour. 

He forgot to worry about it as he drove. Shaping up to be a nicer day than the man on the telly had predicted. The sky was almost blue to the west. He followed Mycroft's directions until they arrived at another warehouse. The door was opened by an employee as they pulled up to the loading dock.

“Well, fuck me,” Greg breathed as he watched several men load two new barbecue grills, still in their boxes, into the lorry. 

“It's all right?” Mycroft asked.

“It's what we needed. How did you know?” He stopped. “No, wait, a couple of the cousins were bitching on social media last month. It's in my file, isn't it?”

Mycroft shifted his eyes skyward and said, “Perhaps?” 

“This will really speed up the cooking. Leah, George, and Cameron each bring theirs, but Cam's has a wonky leg and he needs a new one. There's a sort of stone grill on site we use, too,but no one has ever figured out how to keep it going properly.”

“Is that a challenge?” Mycroft asked.

“If it speeds up dinner, you can take it as such. Thanks for the loan,” he said.

“It's not a loan. I assure you I don 't want them back.”

“Why not? You'd look good in one of those red aprons.”

“Horrifying thought. But pause and think. Sherlock Holmes. Do you think if I had such a thing it would remain unmolested and un-experimented upon? If I had two, one would immediately migrate towards Sherlock at any rate, and then John would eventually take it over for it's original function. Assuming it survived Sherlock in a usable state. Between the two of them....”

“Forget I said anything.” 

“Quite forgotten.” He easily closed the rear doors and dropped the bar in place as if he had been doing it for years. 

“So what did you have in mind for the grills if you don't want them back?”

“Assign one each to the two most deserving. Or just to the persons who can fit a grill into their vehicles. Tell them to bring it back next year. They can have the use while they have possession. The statistics say that although grills are popular, between the weather and other factors, most only use them two or three times a year. They should survive to serve again next year.”

Greg was impressed. They were back on the road and he said, “What do you fancy for lunch?”

“What do you usually do?”

“I have a place I like, a little cafe. Too far to go back to it from here. Don't usually take this direction, so maybe we should just keep an eye out for a place that looks good?”

Mycroft actually rolled his eyes and then got out his phone. A moment later he said, “Take the next exit. There's a place with good reviews not far.”

“I'm not dressed for fancy,” Greg reminded him.

Mycroft looked down at his own jeans and t-shirt and lifted his eyes towards heaven again, pointing out, “Nor I.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting down in a plain cafe with nothing to recommend it from the exterior, but which delivered a splendid ploughman's lunch. It should have been savored, but almost without realizing it, Greg found himself on the road again only half an hour after the meal was plunked down before them.

He spent quite a few minutes thinking about it as they finally reached the countryside. The sun had even deigned to put in an appearance. Traffic had lessened. It was a joy to be out on the road. 

Mycroft said, “I think, if you turn here, I will be able to generate some progress towards one of my goals. We are looking for a blue car, a rental. Inside it will be a young man of about thirty, his wife of five years who is seven months pregnant, and their son who is almost four.”

“I'll keep an eye out,” Greg said dryly. He did, and in fact was able to say, about ten minutes later, “On the left?”

“Ah. Still at the hotel. They must be inside getting the bad news. The situation is this. A person of some power,” he saw Greg's eyebrow raise, “who is not me or mine, and in fact is a member of this man's own organization, canceled the hotel reservations of this man, who is a foreign national of interest to our side. The young man is an up and coming member of the international community and is also apparently honest, ethical and intelligent. His... opponent, shall we say? made sure no more rooms were available at this location. It was pure maliciousness, based on politics. My plan is to save the situation, put myself in position as a rescuer, and give the young man the impression that he has a friend he can turn to as needed.”

“Will he?” Greg asked. 

“Assuming he and his government stay friendly, yes. He's experienced enough not to take me at face value. I have met him before, at a conference in Egypt.” 

“Practically James Bond stuff,” Greg said.

“One hopes not,” Mycroft sighed. “Would you like to come inside with me?”

“I could use a break,” Greg said. So they went in and Greg used the facilities while Mycroft bought overpriced tea in overlarge cups from a kiosk in the lobby. 

From that point it was like watching a play. The man who strode away from the reservation desk looked annoyed. His wife looked resigned. His kid looked like he was going to scream at any moment. Mycroft pretended to be interested in his tea as he walked towards the lorry. The man stopped, exclaimed, called Mycroft by name, and Mycroft turned, making a sound of pleased recognition. The ensuing conversation was in a language Greg couldn't even pretend to understand. 

So Mycroft was apparently multilingual, a good actor, and...well, when Mycroft sent a side glance at him, Greg knew absolutely what Mycroft was contemplating. So, an excellent communicator and manipulator. Of course, most of that he had known already, but seeing it in action was a bit of an eye-opener.

Mycroft said, in English, “Of course we can help you find new accommodations. For two days?”

The man, who was short and dark, with lively eyes said, in careful, slow English, “Yes, we have three more days of holiday but must use the last day to return to London and catch our flight.”

“You said you wanted to see something of rural England, wished to experience something other than the usual tourist fare,” Mycroft was saying, as his eyes flicked towards Greg. The man could communicate entire novels with a glance.

And Greg, amazed as it came out of his mouth, said slowly, “Looking for something civilized, or would he be interested in a bit of primitive life?” Then Mycroft proved that he could also interpret an novel's worth of information from a few words.

“Oh, Gregory, what a splendid idea!” Mycroft said, and returned to the other language to explain rapidly. Then he said, “But first, an introduction. Mr Mitchell, this is my friend Gregory Lestrade. Gregory, this is Donnor Mitchell, whom I met last year, was it? We are going to join Greg's family for a few days,” and then he launched back into the other language, presumably describing where they were headed and what the situation was.

Mycroft turned back to Greg and said, “He is thinking of his wife, who would like some amenities, of course.”

“The old hotel we take over has rooms with actual beds and inside bathrooms. Don't know if that's civilized enough.” The lady was pregnant and probably wouldn't want to do stairs. Have to put them on the bottom floor, but that was okay, Grandma wouldn't be there until Saturday. 

Mycroft exchanged a few more words and then said, “All sorted. He will follow us there. Two hours, would you say?”

“Yeah, 'bout that. Dietary needs, something for the kid we might not have? We do communal meals, no need to bring anything unless...thing is, no stores near there really, except for the little village shop, which is actually someone's front room. Have to get anything you need on this side of civilization.”

“No problem. There are a few items I need to pick up as well,” Mycroft said. “We'll just find the first shopping centre, shall we?”

Okay. No problem finding one, of course, because Mycroft's handy phone could find anything. “Fine. Do they have warm clothing?” Greg asked, “It gets cold that close to the sea.” Another conversation. A few minutes later he and Mycroft were in the lorry, heading out, the small car beetling along behind them.

“Splendid of you to offer,” Mycroft said.

Greg snorted. 

Mycroft acknowledged his manipulation and Greg's reaction to it with a nod. “I did calculate that space would be available as most of your family won't come until Friday, and our guests will be gone by then. From my research I have deduced that most of your family is not overly prejudiced and will be welcoming if they do interact.”

“Frankly, my Aunt Pat and her cousin Anna will be there already, getting the spaces and beds sorted out. She'll probably coo over the young one and volunteer for a bit of babysitting. Good with her own grandkids and always has things for the kids to do.”

Mycroft was nodding. 

After a pause, Greg said. “Mr. Mitchell? Really?” Because Greg was guessing somewhere in the middle east was more likely.

“He picked the name himself when he was at university. Quite proud of it. It's what he uses when he is in English speaking countries.”

“Because?” 

“He is distantly related to the royal family of his country. Well down the line, but they have made use of his connections and propelled him towards a career in government and diplomacy.”

“Right. Are there any food preferences or cultural taboos here I need to know about? We have really informal meals, sandwiches sometimes, while we set up. If there's things they can't eat...?

“A few things, in no way a problem in this instance. When we shop I will choose a few items for the child and some nibbles for the rest of us. Crisps, perhaps.” Mycroft looked happy at the prospect. Greg wondered how long it had been since the man had done his own shopping. Or had crisps.

When they stopped at the shops Mycroft met briefly with Mr. Mitchell, his family having decided to stay in the car, and when inside, and then the two men headed in two different directions. Greg stayed with the lorry to open the back in case there was something that would need to go in his cooler. His guess proved correct. Mycroft arrived with an entire trolley of items, including a few new blankets. Mr. Mitchell, also laden down, waved as he climbed into his own car. 

Greg sorted through the food and stowed everything safely, and they were soon on their way again, the little car keeping pace behind. Greg found it funny, always having to look in the mirror, checking just as he had when the car behind was black; he was always making sure he was signaling in good time before he made a turn, and not stopping suddenly.

“One more stop, I believe?”

“Right. The fruit.”

It was half an hour later that he hauled in his box of apples, his box of satsumas and... “Pears?”

Mycroft said, “I added to your order a box of pears and one of apricots. I hope you don't mind. Nadine...Mitchell is fond of them.”

“No problem, of course.” Before he could even wonder about it, Mycroft said, “It won't show up on your bill.”

“Thanks, then. Variety is always good.” Greg wasn't quite sure how he felt about it. At least he knew the cost wouldn't be causing Holmes there any hardship. He'd always had the impression there was money in the family, just based on the way Sherlock dressed. Mycroft, too, come to think of it.

“So. How long has it been since you've had a vacation. Week off, like this?” Greg asked as they turned off onto a smaller road. 

“I haven't had more than a day or two off in years,” Mycroft admitted. “It does concern my colleagues. Holidays are supposed to aid in mental health and stability. This respite will allow me to say, for an entire year, that I just took an entire week off, everything's quite fine, thank you.”

“So where did you go the last time?”

“I took an extra day after a conference in South America to enjoy the beach.”

“An entire day.”

“I slept through most of it. It was entirely what I wanted in a vacation, I assure you.” 

“You can sleep through this one if you want,” Greg offered. The man was probably tired clear down to his bones, even if he wasn't aware of it. 

“I don't think so,” Mycroft said. Greg was rather intrigued by the little smile that touched the man's lips. Right. He put his eyes firmly back on the road.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding it a little harder than I thought to post as I write. Sorry for any inconsistency you find, and please feel free to point them out.

Some time later, Mycroft straightened and said, “This might be a good time to offer my apology.”

Greg waited, not sure what to say.

Mycroft continued, “I know you will keep what I say private if asked. I am asking.”

“Yes. Okay.” How weird was this going to get?

“After the...after Sherrinford, my brother made a request of you. Completely out of character,” Mycroft noted.

Open ended, half a question. So, Mycroft was waiting for details? Look after him, Sherlock has said. Yeah. Out of character, rooted in fear, because Sherlock had his own half of the disaster to manage, with John in bad shape. Probably thought Mycroft couldn't handle any brotherly attention, or at least not Sherlock's toxic variety. Too close to death, too much anger boiling under the surface. On both sides. All sides.

With Greg not falling for the the attempt to learn exactly what Sherlock has said, Mycroft went on, “Whatever he asked of you, I couldn't...I was not in any shape to cope with it. I made sure you couldn't do what he asked. I...ran.”

“You got yourself out of the toxic vicinity,” Greg countered.

Mycroft didn't disagree. He said, “I began the process of damage control. I didn't have time for my own stress.”

“I wasn't sure what I could have done anyway.” Invite myself along on his debriefing? Try to help him wind down without shattering? You couldn't make the Holmes brothers do anything. 

“I had to arrange protections and set in motion protocols I had in place for this type of situation. The affair was managed and I was successful in that I kept my position. Which was in serious jeopardy for about an hour. I had to...make concessions.”

Greg was not going to ask what they were. Besides a mandated holiday.

“The death penalty is not a legal option in most civilized countries.”

That was...true. Bit of a non sequitur, though. He glanced at Mycroft, seeing the set jaw, the stare that was focused on the road. Or something beyond the road.

“But as you know, there are times when certain entities arrange for the elimination of individuals, dangerous to the commonwealth. For over twenty years I have fought to ensure our sister was not...eliminated. To do so I tried to show that she could be of use, that we could use that magnificent brain for our benefit. Although it was not precisely ethical, I made sure I had the power to make decisions about those interactions. A juggling act that would have kept her alive until she died of a natural death. But she had her own needs, her own diagnosed problems, her own idea of entertainment and perhaps, her own revenge for being imprisoned. She made choices which mean I can no longer protect her. I have been removed from any oversight of her situation. I know...she does not have more than a few months.”

Oh, hell. “She probably knows it,” he said cautiously.

“It is possible she even wants it.” Mycroft sighed, “Or that she will redouble her efforts at chaos. There is nothing I can do to prevent what happens; I am forbidden to intercede.” Just a touch of his frustration was showing. Probably just the tip of the iceberg. “It was hubris to think that I could contain the east wind. I failed. On many levels.” “Some of them still think they can do what I could not. When they find they can't control her, it is over.”

Not going to touch that one. “Does Sherlock know?”

“He can deduce the situation. It is probably the reason he has been...playing the violin with her. A last chance to connect. Although I worry. He may not be vulnerable to her manipulations directly, but she is...beyond clever.”

But indirectly? Greg felt a little guilty that the thought crossed his mind that sooner rather than later was probably the best in regards to Eurus Holmes.

All he could think to say was, “You really do need a vacation.”

“I do better keeping busy. I have had to be busy. I have been putting in extra hours to make sure that all eventualities are covered in my absence. But I will take the rest they assure me I need, and I will take a day to reorder my mental structure.”

“Your mind palace?”

“Nothing so ornate. Sherlock has always invented novel references for his own environment.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “I apologize for not giving you the opportunity to do as Sherlock requested and I apologize as well for drawing you into my own problems. I suspect, you see, that they will time the demise of my sister for a few weeks after my holiday. On the assumption that I will be stronger at that point and won't retaliate.”

Just from the little he knew about the Holmes brothers, there was going to be a bit of retaliation anyway. He thought about the situation for a moment and said, “Your parents?”

“Not speaking to me. They may be coming to terms with what my uncle did, what I did, just about the time she dies. The result will be...it will reignite their anger. I believe my relationship with my parents will be irretrievably broken by the time the funeral is over. We will have to take measures to prove it is indeed her in the casket, but cremation, I think, will be necessary and I must make sure no one has appropriated or is allowed to keep tissue samples. I don't think cloning experiments on her genetic material will end well.”

It would keep anyone up at night, dealing with that sort of shite. Greg wondered if this was all a warning about the level of hell the man would be dealing with, a sort of advance warning that there wouldn't be much relationship going forward. Or was it a ploy to insure future support? It gave him a headache trying to work it out.

So he said, “What about Sherlock?”

“Sherlock feels guilt that he forgot, that he rewrote his own memories, and now doubts himself. But also, many things that puzzled him can be worked out now with the new information. He spends a great deal of time thinking. John Watson is also spending time in contemplation, but not entirely productively. I am hoping he will get a new therapist. I found connections between his old one and Eurus which suggests that not all of the sessions which John attended were devoted to his best interests.”

“You have one picked out. Therapist,” Greg clarified. 

“He won't take such advice from me, but I hate to leave such things to chance. He will have the one I consider best. Soon. I have come to understand that Dr. Watson needs more help than he is willing to admit, and if it is not handled soon there will be negative consequences for all of them.”

“Anger.”

“And abandonment issues. He, too, now doubts his own memories, his own reactions.”

Greg said, “Maybe you can get group rates.”

“Couples therapy would help,” Mycroft said with a sort of considering grunt. 

“But they're not....” Greg let it trail off. Those two. Even if they weren't a couple, they were living together. Sherlock was staying with them in the house John had shared with Mary. But then, so was Mrs. Hudson, until 221 was renovated. 

Mycroft didn't give him any thoughts on the status of his brothers relationships. “I will probably have much more to apologize for before the year is out.” 

Which meant he was done thinking about it for now. Greg glanced behind. Yeah, still there. He wondered what they were talking about, back there. Had to be less stressful than what was going on up here.


	4. Four

Greg had often thought of the roads to “their spot” as veins and arteries. They'd left the main vein an hour ago. They were now onto a very minor artery and were soon to be in capillary territory. It was also rather un-scenic. Which was probably the only reason their little spot of relative paradise wasn't run over with tourists. It took some effort to get past the crap road and the working farms. Twice they waited for tractors or farm vehicles to clear from the road. This meant they crept along at a snail's pace.

They were staring at the back end of a vehicle holding one too many goats, most of whom were protesting loudly. For some reason, this made a small smile flicker on and off Mycroft's face. Not that Greg was looking or anything. 

When they turned off to the village, the road became a track. Not muddy this year, thank god. He eased around the turns, because the scrubby trees blocked the view and the road was one way; he didn't want to have to back up. Eventually he stopped. “Run back and tell your friend to go ahead of us and park near the biggest building, close as he can get. I need to back in from here.”

Without comment, Mycroft obeyed. Wonder how often that happened, Greg thought as he made a careful turn and then began in reverse, his head out the window sometimes as he slotted between the cottages. Mycroft, bless him, had continued along the lane and was giving him hand-signals when he was too much one side or the other.

He got out of the lorry to cheers from the half a dozen relatives already on site. He noticed that the shed was open, first canopy already up, and tarp walls almost in place. It cheered him immensely. One year he had been first and with everyone else running late, he'd had to do most of that himself.

Aunt Pat, Anna, Kenneth, Popsy and Cora all surged forward. Geoff only yelled, because he was left all alone holding up one end of tarp and couldn't join them. His wife, Cora, laughed and peeled off to go back and help him. 

Greg steeled himself and made introductions, ending with, “And this is my boyfriend, Mycroft, and some of his friends who were stranded. The Mitchell's. I offered them two nights in Grandma's rooms, since she won't be here until Saturday.” He watched the faces, but nobody seemed put off by any of that. “Let me get them settled and then we can unload so I can move this behemoth.”

The room for the Mitchells held a double bed, two cribs and a small trundle bed which could be pulled out to hold up to three kids. Grandma always had grandkids in with her. It was crowded, but clean, with a worn carpet on the floor and a more or less modern bathroom just across the hall. He started the small heater to warm up the place and left Mycroft helping them settle in. 

It took half an hour to unload. Mycroft came and helped, and Mr. Mitchell as well. Tables took two people to drag out and to set up, and then they unloaded the chairs. There would be seats enough for the adults, the kids usually made do with the pillows or blankets some families brought. As they worked, Greg chatted with Mr. Mitchell about the places within hiking distance, which way one took to reach the world's smallest beach, the rocks to climb, the safety rules. He showed them were the younger set would be putting up their tents and how the the tarp walls were anchored to cut off the wind. 

The kitchen was set up under the largest canopy. The new grills were un-boxed and assembled, the flattened boxes stacked in the lorry, and then Greg drove it out to the edge of the camping area, where it became part of the barrier against the elements. Sometimes, when the rain was bad, the kids even moved into it to sleep, squashed up against each other until the space warmed.

Mr. Mitchell moved his car as well, parking nearly along one side to extend the windbreak. They walked back together.

For decades, the women and girls had been stuck with all the meal duties; now the men and women worked together. In theory. Greg noticed that the ladies still did the lion's share of the organizing and more than half the work. He was just glad he didn't have cooking or KP on the first night and could just sit and eat the sandwiches and drink the hot soup and nibble the crisps Mycroft had added to the table. Still in their packets, which were torn open so everyone could help themselves. Mycroft had the look of a man who would have preferred them served from a bowl. Greg could have told him that one good gust of wind and it was goodbye potato-y goodness, bowl or not. 

There was a fire pit up against two large rocks, still there from last year. As the sky turned dark, the fire was started and everyone pulled up their chairs in a rough half-circle around it. By nine, however, with yawns and stretches, each of them called it a night and began to drift away. Greg took care of the fire and made a last check of the canopy ropes and stakes.

“Grab your things,” Greg said holding open the crude door. Once they were out he fastened it securely, more against wind than intruders. “We're on the second floor this year,” Greg said as he slung his bag over his shoulder, and Mycroft hefted his own. Greg led the way inside and up the rickety stairs. There were only three rooms on this level, and he had negotiated the one on the west, which held a double bed with sagging infrastructure and a narrow and hard bench/bed on the other side of the room. It was a small room, only a couple of meters between the two beds. When his daughters arrived, Greg had planned to have the narrow one himself and let the girls share the double. He was mentally trying to figure out how to fit five people into a space with beds for three.

Of course, he could just let his ex-wife sort out her own mess, but she'd get the girls involved and her own solutions always had him on the short end of the stick. When it wasn't skewering him. What he needed to do was have a place for Mycroft and him to retreat to when they descended. He wondered what Mycroft's opinion would be in regards to sleeping outside. Greg found himself grinning just at the thought. Still. There was a tent spot just out the back door. Close to the bathroom, even if they would have to hike inside. If nobody else had claimed the spot, he could put up the tent tomorrow, and have it ready when the harpy swooped down. He wondered if the tent the girls had talked him into getting four years ago was still in the storage shed. Anything left in the shed was available to be used by anyone. Who knows what shape it was in.

The younger members of the family would probably not argue if he claimed the spot he wanted. It was popular, but age did have a few privileges. The alternative was having to camp down there with the younger set. Horrors. On both sides of the equation. But at lease tonight, and tomorrow night, they could have this bit of civilization all to themselves. With real mattresses, old as they were.

Mycroft was leaning against the door, looking the room over, saying nothing.

“Bet you could call a helicopter, get you out in minutes,” Greg said.

Mycroft flicked an eye over at him. It was true. Greg had no doubt there was someone charged with keeping an eye on this 'minor government official” too. Hopefully without a microphone involved. 

“The situation is not that dire,” Mycroft told him. 

“You haven't tried the bed.” Greg watched the edge of a lip curve up at the joke. 

“It hardly looks sturdy enough for two.”

“And it creaks. There's room to put the mattress on the floor. Done that a time or two. That's if you want to share. You could,” he waved offering the narrow, hard cot. 

“That looks even less comfortable.”

“Looks are not deceiving, then.” Greg added, “When the girls were small, the wife and I had the bed, and one kid on each end of that,” he pointed towards the cot. “When they grew too big for that we'd divide, the kids had this room with a friend, and she and I had the room next to this. An even smaller room, same sort of bed.”

Still, they'd had some good times there. Laughing and trying to keep quiet. She's always liked the idea of sneaking about, the worry-thrill of trying not to get caught. Of course, it would have helped if he'd figured out a lot sooner that this applied to interactions outside of her marriage, as well as inside.

Mycroft shook his head.

“What?” Greg asked.

“I hope you brought sheets?” 

“My own sheets and blankets and pillows. Everybody does.”

“I hope your ex-wife remembered.” 

“She can use her coat. She'll hate it.” Greg was sure the expression on his face wasn't too gleeful.

“I brought my own pillow as well. I am a fussy middle-aged man who sleeps poorly at times.” Also he had two new blankets, which he was removing from their packaging.

Greg laughed a bit and then said, “What is your opinion of sleeping in a tent?”

“Not favorable. You are thinking about when your unexpected guest arrives?”

“Yeah. At that point the rooms will all be claimed and I don't want to be arguing about it with her. We can leave the ladies this room and take the tent. Bit more privacy,” he admitted, “if you think you could stand it.”

“If I am sleeping in a tent, I will have to provide it. Because of security concerns,” he added.

Probably had one with Kevlar panels and anti-surveillance canvas. Assuming such things existed. 

Mycroft was getting his phone and texting something. When he was done he gave a nod and said to Greg, “It will be here tomorrow morning. If you will indicate where it should be placed, it will be available to us by nine.”

“In the morning?”

“Certainly.” 

Half joking, Greg said, “Have them bring some decent bread, too.”

“Done.” Mycroft's thumbs moved swiftly. Had to admire his technique. Greg was a hunt and peck typist on his own phone, his fingers unsuited to the small buttons.

“Was joking, but...thanks.”

“I would never be so unkind as to criticize a host's offerings, but I must agree that the bread tonight was failing in the task of actually containing the contents.”

And it had no taste at all, but Greg hadn't said anything either. He hoped it was all transformed into toast for tomorrow's breakfast; toasting and massive amounts of butter and jam could only improve it.

“So,” Greg began, “Would you like first chance at the shower? I'll put the sheets on and than take my own turn.”

“If you will point me in the direction?”

Greg did, and hoped the man wouldn't be too unhappy with the primitive facilities. The showers weren't adjustable and the water pressure abysmal. But at least it was all clean. 

By the time Mycroft returned, Greg had taken the mattress off the bed and slid it onto the floor, where it just fit the space. He had the sheets and blankets on and his own pillow thrown onto the middle of the makeshift bed. When he saw this, Mycroft's eyebrows lifted a fraction.

“The bed's not as sturdy as it might be,” Greg explained. “Better on the floor.” And it creaked. And he didn't want everyone in the house to know what they might be up to. If anything.

“Extremely practical,” Mycroft said, and went to retrieve his own pillow, already encased in very high quality cotton. Mycroft had changed into pajamas of equally fine material, deep blue, with tiny bits of white piping at the neck and sleeves. 

“Not knowing I was going to have company, all I brought to sleep in is a t-shirt and my boxers.”

“That will be fine, of course,” Mycroft said, and just the way he said it, with the slight upturn of his lips, made Greg aware that Mycroft rather liked that thought. Mycroft was sitting gingerly on the narrow cot-bed that was now to the left of their bed-on-the-floor. “Perhaps we should negotiate what our expectations will be for tonight.”

“Besides sleep?” Greg said.

“Precisely. What would you like tonight?”

“What's on offer?”

“Anything that does not culminate in screaming. I would not like to wake the household.”

“Right.” Greg gathered his courage and said, “Do blowjobs make you scream?”

“Not while I'm giving them,” Mycroft answered dryly. “And you?”

“Not a screamer,” he confessed. Lots of practice at not, actually. Always tried to keep it down when the kids were in the house. His wife had been able to keep it quiet as needed, too. But had loved the occasions when they were really alone and she could vocalize all she wanted.

“And your opinion on foreplay?” Mycroft asked.

“Uh...it's good?” Trick question?

“I like to take my time. With some things.”

Greg swallowed, hard. “But not other things?”

“We shall learn as we go, don't you think?”

Was he blushing?


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The oceany-and-shore improbable place I have invented here is so totally un-based in fact that I suggest you spend no time trying to figure out where it may be and how realistic is could be. I certainly don't know.

It turned out that Mycroft Holmes was utterly brilliant with his mouth. Incredible, and inventive. Educational. In fact, when Greg returned the favor, he found he was already using some of the techniques he had just experienced. Fast learner, when it came to things like this; Greg was rather proud of himself. He'd turned Mycroft Holmes, who obviously had a some practice at this sort of thing, into a writhing, whimpering heap of pleasure-saturated man, whose eyes were wet from the effort to keep it quiet, his hair a flyaway halo. 

Greg had thought ahead and had a damp cloth ready; he took pleasure from cleaning up the small drips and dabs that had escaped his mouth and flecked the pale skin of his new lover. Only a few. Greg had swallowed. Wasn't sure that he could, but he'd done it. Then he was up against the cool flesh of Mycroft's chest and their sheet and blanket were tugged up to his chin. That's sorted, he thought happily as he curved himself into a comfortable position. He'd never slept next to a taller person this way, but what worry he had about it drifted away as his body tugged him into sleep.

When he woke up eight hours later it was to an insistent bladder which he did his best to ignore, because there was a naked man plastered down his back. A naked man breathing softly against his neck. Eventually he tried to ease away, but it woke Mycroft. Greg mumbled that he would be right back, pulled on his pants, and after opening the door and looking both ways, darted across the hall to relieve himself. When he came back, Mycroft was dressed and just tying the last shoestring with a strong, efficient tug. Greg was surprised at how disappointed he felt. But he was hungry so he got dressed himself while Mycroft took his turn in the bathroom. 

As they went out the door, Mycroft said, “Show me where the tent should be erected.” So they went around to the side and stood talking about the best placement, and drainage when it rained, and where the sun reached in the morning, before they went back to help with breakfast. Aunt Pat was scrambling eggs and Cora and Geoff were trying, with limited success, to toast bread over an open fire on one of the grills. There was no sign of the Mitchell's.

They ate outside on folding chairs set in the sunniest spot. The fresh air was cold against his face and when he looked over he saw that Mycroft had a bit of pink to his cheeks. The breeze was trying to toss the short curls at his brow, too. The man almost looked relaxed. Funny how this sort of cobbled together fake-boyfriend relationship was going more smoothly than most of his actual ones. Not much awkwardness when they woke up. No worrying if the other person had read more into the sex than was on offer. Mycroft looked up, caught his eye and gave him a questioning look. Greg shrugged and reached for Mycroft's empty paper plate.

Greg helped with clean-up, drying dishes while cheerfully chatting with Popsy, one of his younger cousins. He hadn't seen her since last year. He kept an eye on Mycroft the entire time, tracking automatically as the man straightened a canopy pole and aligned and reinforced one of the tarps which made a crude wall to cut out the wind. Mycroft might be fussy but he was efficient, he was now methodically making a check of all the supports. Greg didn't even try to hide that he was eying the man's posterior as he leaned over, and admiring the way the muscles of his arms and legs looked as they stretched and then bunched.

As the morning progressed the Mitchells emerged, Nadine appeared more rested, but nothing like the men in her family who seemed totally rejuvenated and practically bouncing with energy. They accepted the offer of breakfast with smiles and settled down to eat at one of the long folding tables. Greg and Mycroft joined them with cups of coffee; the Mitchells accepted tea. Cora had explained that it was herbal with no caffeine as she set cups in front of each of them. She also provided a small glass of milk for the boy, who gave a very polite thank you and eyed it suspiciously. His mother took it from him when it was plain he was not going to drink it, and finished it herself.

The exchange about how-did-you-sleep and other social back and forth lasted until they the food was gone. Greg stood up and said, “It's time to show you a around, if you don't mind a little hike?” He led them our and then uphill to a pile of driftwood and branches and said, “First, everybody take a stick.”

They were hiking slowly up a fairly steep, but short, incline to a small cluster of rather stunted trees. There was a wooden table there, where the crude trail turned. From that point, they clambered up a set of shallow stone steps and around a few rocks to reach a wide oval of dirt and grass surrounded by oddly shaped stones and boulders, most of which made excellent seats. There was a second circle of smaller stones of the same type closer to the fire pit. From here one could look down on the little village. It gave a good view of who driving or walking up to the village. In the opposite direction were the green fields and a few farm houses with lazy drifts of smoke coming from the chimneys. 

The fire pit at the center of the oval was primitive, but included a grate which could be slid over coals. Along one wall a pile of branches and small logs were stacked. Greg demonstrated by throwing his own stick onto the pile what to do.

“Everyone always brings a branch or chunk wood when they climb up. Usually one or two family members bring wood as their contribution, but they don't have to carry it up. They dump the wood near the path and then, as I said, everybody helps haul it up. We usually meet here every Friday and Saturday evening, have a bonfire, talk, roast marshmallows,” Greg said to Mycroft, staring down at the lone car making its way up the winding road, trying to figure out who it was. 

The Mitchells were sitting on the rocks, pointing out the fluttery clouds on the horizon where the sun was trying to break through. 

“And if it rains?” Mycroft asked, glancing at the clouds as well. 

“We do it down below in the cooking area. Not quite the same, mind.” Greg replied.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Saturday is the day we make decisions, talk about problems, how this is going. This year...well, it should take a long time. We're going to split this group. It's got too big. Every decade or so everything needs adjusting. There's ten weeks in the summer, more or less and there are ten groups of us now. The family has been coming here for decades, started out with just one week, one group, and then had to keep expanding. This last year two of the groups got so small that they combined into one, which left one spot open, and it was agreed that this group, as the biggest, would divide and one half would take the other slot. Which is in July, much better weather.”

“But you have reservations.”

“Yeah. I like this slot, going first, helping get it all ready for the other groups as well as our own.”

Mycroft nodded for him to go on.

Greg rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, shooting glance of embarrassment towards Mycroft along with a small wry smile. “So, well, each group always has a person who coordinates with the other groups, settles problems, sorts out the extra gear.”

“A leader.”

“Right, but not a boss, you know? And when they split they vote a new leader and then make the division, and discuss who goes with which group.”

“Gregory, are you in danger of being elected?”

“So I've been told. And then I'll have to work out what's best for everyone.”

“Which might mean having to leave this date for one in July. You prefer repairing the ravages of the winter and the unspoiled newness of the season to a later meeting, which will have better weather but different responsibilities.”

“Damn, you're good. Spot on.”

“And while you are flattered that you could be chosen, you are not eager for the leadership position?” 

“Frankly, I feel young for it. Not yet fifty. All the other groups are headed by men or women in their sixties and seventies. This gray hair,” he gave a depreciating laugh as he ran his fingers through it, “maybe makes them think I am older.”

“I'm sure your job generates gravitas. Trust,” Mycroft added.

“Right. Well, then, and I might yet be second choice. Guess there's some who are thinking Uncle Pete would be a good choice.”

“Is he the man with the unfortunate...dependence?”

“Oh, yes. Says he's not an alcoholic because he only drinks beer.”

“Forcing you to fight for a placement you do not particularly wish in the first place, in the name of the greater good.”

“Right. But I mentioned it because it might explain some odd conversations you might hear, and if anyone gets the bright idea that they can use my boyfriend somehow....”

“Are you suggesting I might take a bribe to influence your decisions?” 

“Uh, no. You're probably unbribe-able, all things considered.”

“Nonsense, I can easily be influenced. When I want to be,” Mycroft added with the slight upturn of lips that passed for a smile with him.

“I'm not even going to go there,” Greg said, and lifting his voice he called, “We're heading down now,” to the Mitchells.

He began leading the way down the path again, and then past the kitchen area to a place where the path forked. They walked through the village slowly, giving the Mitchells time to peer into the yards and windows of the dozen small houses and cottages that lined the lane. Mycroft also was sometimes a step or two behind. He was pretty sure Mycroft was looking at his arse, though he never caught him at it. 

Greg kept up a running commentary. “This first building, where we stayed last night, is the old hotel, not that it's big enough to be called that, even when it was open it had only five rooms to rent. Our family bought it in the seventies and since then it's where the older members of the family sleep, and some of the families with younger children. For the rooms we're in, I got them because I agreed to come early and help get things ready. We store bedding and folding chairs and cushions there during the winter. The shed by the cooking area, that has all the big stuff stored in it.” A few steps later, he pointed to the left. 

“Here's Red cottage. That's owned by the local family who acts as caretakers for us, keeps an eye on things during the winter, does minor repairs. Ben Hunter and his family. They both have other jobs on a diary farm about five miles west. Next is Mrs. Adamson. She was actually a war bride, getting up there in years. She's got an arrangement with one of the Burton cousins where they bought her cottage but she gets to live there free of the rest of her days. They use it the two weeks she goes and stays with her daughter each summer. This stone place had that same arrangement years ago, and the Robinson branch of the family own it now. They come and spend each summer and go to almost all the reunions.”

He stopped to let the Mitchells catch up. “This next is Mrs. Malvern's place and she does baking and sells it out of her front room. Our kids are always down here getting rid of their spending money. Then the next two places are owned by a farmer, he lets them to his laborers. Can't get them to sell us even one, but that's fine, they're usually good neighbors. Then this place belongs to an older man on a pension. He's not a member of the family, but shows up for some of the meals and the bonfires. Nobody minds. Nice guy, good tenor. We sing around the fire,” he warned Mycroft as they went down some stone steps to the left. “Two little cottages down here, not for sale but, most annoyingly, not used by whoever does own them. Down this way is a small path that goes along the rocks, but not to the ocean. There's some places you could fall if you get off the path, so keep an eye on the little one.”

He led the way back and pointed out the last two houses. “That one belongs to my great uncle's branch of the family. The one beside it is the Lewis house, second cousins.” 

He waited until the Mitchells were further away to add, “There's all sorts of trades and rents and negotiations among the branches of the family for who gets the use of a house for what week. My ex wife was always unhappy with me because I wouldn't try to buy us one. But she spent an equal amount of time complaining about how much of our money went into these vacations. That's why it's so ironic that she is thinking of showing up. She pretty much hated the weather, the chores, most of my family and the fact that it wasn't France or someplace with a fancy restaurant.”

“One supposes that other holidays were celebrated in the style she preferred?” Mycroft asked.

“Every single one of them. Except the birthdays. Lydia and Lara always got to choose for themselves where to go for their celebration.”

“Then, as you said, her motives for coming here are hardly nostalgia and personal enjoyment.”

“Oh, she plans to enjoy herself. She likes making a bit of trouble, just for entertainment.”

“Surely this made you incompatible?” Mycroft suggested softly.

Greg gave a small aborted snort. When they married he had thought they liked the same things. He'd been wrong.

“This,” he said, pausing so the Mitchells could move up within the sound of his voice, “This is where the hiking trail starts. It's along the coast, about a mile and a half of pretty good path but after that it gets quite rocky. It goes along the ocean but you can't get down to it and shouldn't try, the rocks are dangerous, especially when wet. It's just for the walk. There's birds and rabbits and a few sheep, nothing to hurt you, but watch your step. For, erm. Bird droppings.”

Nadine looked extremely dubious. Their boy was crouched down inspecting ants which marched along the edge of a boulder, until his mother pulled him away. 

“Okay, we go back down this way and I'll show you what makes this place special.” He led the way back through the village and when he reached the place where the path forked, he took the other branch, leading the way toward what seemed to be a heap of weather roughened rocks each about the size of a house. Only when you got close could you see the rocks were spaced so that there was a path between them. 

“The path is just wide enough,” Greg explained, “that we got a wheelchair down here one year, but some of the turns are tricky,” Greg added over his shoulder. The path had been made of rubble and rocks packed between the boulders so that there was a level walkway until it started to slant downwards, and then there were rough steps. It was dark between the high sides of the rocks, and damp. 

And all along the edges, the path was lined with shells, rocks, sea glass and bits of driftwood, built up along the face of the stone, sometimes to hip level, all fitted together like a mosaic or a puzzle. Most of it looked like the work of children, but some sections where rather sophisticated and complex. A series of seashell flowers was exceptionally charming. It was twenty five meters of twisty trail before the way opened up onto the world's smallest beach.

It was a pebble beach, without much sand. From this point the huge rocks fell away to each side, curving as they extended out into the ocean so that the water was trapped in a tiny bay. About three meters from the shore a series of pilings had been driven in, and netting strung between, to prevent someone small from being swept out to sea. The water was usually too cold to bathe in, but there was a tiny strip of sand and where one could wade or sit.

There were four large wooden chairs up against the rocks to the left of the entry point, and some benches to the right. To each side there were more rock decor, and slabs and chunks of stone which were obviously used as building blocks for various projects. Small houses, perhaps, for fairies.

It managed to be charming, just the sort of place children liked to play.

“Our rule is, there has to be someone fifteen or older if any of the kids are down here; there's usually a mother or two manning the chairs. The tide comes up as high as that line of rocks, and nobody is ever allowed to go past the pilings. Most of the kids spend half their time down here, if not more.”

Nadine was carefully sitting on one of the chairs, which already had the cushions on it. Greg pointed out a wooden box under her chair, pulled it out, took out a blanket, and turned the box into a foot stool and spread the blanket over her knees. “Just put the blanket back before you leave. Nice, isn't it?” He waved Donnor into the closest chair. Their young son was already piling up stones at the water's edge. Greg and Mycroft took the other two chairs. 

“Some of the younger kids spend all year collecting up interesting rocks to bring, and they add to the walls and here. Each weekend the youngest build houses and towers with the rocks. The rule is you have to take them all down again before you leave, so the next group can make their own. They post pictures on Facebook, try to out-do each other.”

“Did you, when you were a child?” Mycroft asked, studying him with a smile.

“I was the king of the tower. See that crack over there with the slabs of rock forced in every six or eight inches? I started that, did the first two. Takes a lot of work to find the right flat rock and work it in until it's stable.” He made Mycroft laugh. Nice. “I made sure the first rocks were in well enough it didn't get taken down.”

“Ah. A rebel.” Turned out, Mycroft could make him laugh as well.

They spent almost an hour at the little beach, but it wasn't quite warm enough for more, and so they went back, arriving just in time to help get lunch on the table. A bowl of stew with crackers, cheese, and fruit, simple enough. It was a little different since it wasn't just family, but still...good. Relaxing. Greg could feel himself letting go of some of the tension he always carried at work. 

He washed dishes, Geoff dried. The scent of the sea came on the cool breeze.

And Donnor and Mycroft tackled the square brick monstrosity that formed one corner of the outdoor kitchen. As Greg had told Mycroft yesterday, it had never worked properly. He watched them lean over it. Well, he watched Mycroft. Sleeves rolled up, he and Donnor crouched down beside it. Consulted. Mycroft was ruining that shirt, as the soot of the ages grimed into the cloth at every touch.

A few minutes later he was asking for a pry bar, a chisel, and a hammer. Greg showed him where the toolbox was and let hem have at it. The grate was taken off, chips of concrete flew. Nadine took her child on a walk in self defense. Greg, Cora and Kenneth started setting up the next series of poles to expand the dining area. This part would extend over dirt instead of the packed gravel near the stove and cold boxes. The wind came up, of course it did, but they persevered and by the time they stopped to begin supper preparations they had finished the job. 

Mycroft and his friend had also triumphantly finished theirs. 

Donnor was waving his hand about. “Someone, someone,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“Filled the air vents with concrete,” Mycroft nodded. “Probably because they delivered too much air. We have taken about half of it out.”

“Perhaps you can provide fuel so that we might test this?” Donnor asked with anticipation. They left him with charcoal and lighter fluid and a gleam in his eye. 

Mycroft said, “Gregory, if you would?” and tilted his head towards the hotel. Greg looked down at his own extremely grubby hands and promptly joined him. Greg automatically headed towards the room but Mycroft intercepted him and led the way around the building.

A tent. But not just any tent. This was probably the sort of tent one put up command centers in when the general had both budget and taste. The peaked roof was a camo pattern, the walls a slate green, taut and military-like. It was a full three meters along each side and at the middle tall enough for even Mycroft to stand up.

“How did you get it up o fast? With no one looking?” Greg asked as Mycroft unfastened the door flap.

“It was up before noon. We made it a training mission for some inexperienced agents.” Mycroft held aside the fabric to allow Greg to enter first.

It had two cots along opposite walls, a small table and two chairs, extraordinarily thick padding on the floor, and a small heater at the far end. On the table was a small cooler and beside it was a basket containing eight loaves of sliced bread, each a different variety, but in combination sending out a wonderful smell.

“Let us hurry to wash our hands and take this back before they get started on dinner.” Mycroft suggested, sliding a hand through the basket handle so it rested on his arm. It should have looked silly. It didn't.

“You have very good ideas,” Greg said, backing out and holding the flap for Mycroft. They ducked in the back door of the hotel, hurried up the stairs, and washed up quickly. Mycroft also paused to wipe off his face and neck. Lovely long fingers he had, Greg observed. The perfect manicure he had arrived with was gone, but is hands still looked good. Really good.

The bread was greeted with cries of glee, partly because just as Greg and Mycroft came around the corner, two cars pulled up and more provisions were obviously needed. This new lot of relatives included five children, and the noise level went up at once. Soup, sandwiches and crisps made up the bulk of the meal. At the bottom of Mycroft's basket had been several pounds of very fine butter. 

Greg and Mycroft skipped the sandwiches and ate excellent bread and butter, several slices each. The soup had been cooked on the newly repaired brick grill and Mycroft and Donner came in for high praise and some hearty back slaps, which startled Donnor and caused Mycroft to slip on his bland smile while he maneuvered to the slap-free zone on the far side of Gregory. 

After the meal, Greg again offered to help clean up, and Mycroft was right by his side, drying spoons with a careful competency which Greg found just a little hot. When they were finished there was still time for a short walk as the sun slowly set. They could hear the shouts of the children down at the little beach. The Mitchells were nowhere in sight.

When they ambled back, the fire had been kindled and some were huddled around it, but the older half of the crowd were seated at the tables. Singing started once or twice, but mostly everyone was catching up on news. Only a little past nine, Greg reached down, nudged Mycroft and tilted his head towards the door. Mycroft closed his hand around Greg's and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Hand in hand, they slipped out into the dark.


	6. Six

“Are you tired?” Greg asked as they sat down on the long cot, side by side. The door was firmly closed. The light of the one dim bulb made the space intimate. 

“Not. At all,” Mycroft told him, with a speaking glance.

“Might have to wait until things are a little quieter,” Greg warned him.

“But until then?”

“Kisses?” When Greg had been young, his assignations with men hadn't featured much kissing. It was expected you could find other things to do with your mouth. But Mycroft was different. Times were different. The idea of spending time just kissing this man was appealing. Part of it was just the novelty of it. Kissing Sherlock's straight-laced brother. It made him feel naughty; like he was despoiling a virgin princess. Like he was special, that he was allowed to assail the heights others were barred from even approaching.

Mr. Holmes allowed the kisses, and then slowly became the aggressor, until Greg was stretched out under that lean body, panting and dragging his hands down the smooth material of his shirt. The narrow cot did not give him room for much movement. 

“Perhaps we should slow down,” Mycroft murmured as a door slammed on the floor below.

“You'll have to stop touching me. Hard to think when you're...” Greg gave a small buck of his hips, and then grinned when a shudder rippled through Mycroft's torso.

Mycroft rolled off of him and stood up in one smooth motion. He went and pulled the mattress of the bed to the floor, and to Greg's surprise he put the pillows on the west side, instead of the north as they had been the night before. This put the bench-bed at their head and the bed frame at their feet.

And all of the sudden he could envision the advantages of the arrangement. The...possibilities. God, there were so many possibilities that he could feel blood rushing in his ears. Not to mention to parts south. He didn't say anything as he went to help smooth the sheets and arrange the blankets. It took awhile. They kept stopping to touch or kiss. Mycroft seemed to have his hands on every part of his body, even sitting cross-legged, with Greg's foot in his hand, the strokes and rubs making Greg alternately gasp or shiver.

He couldn't help but compare it to all the hundreds of times he had made love to his wife. Mycroft's hands in his hair, the fingertips rubbing long paths through the strands. It felt so good. Had she ever done that? He couldn't remember it ever happening, although he did recall how it felt to run his fingers through her curls. And the tapping and light strokes around his nipples...she had never done that. No one had ever done that!

The truth was, in bed, Greg's main goal had always been finding out what gave his wife pleasure and making sure he delivered it. Her main goal had been her own pleasure, too, he realized. She'd returned what he needed just to encourage his efforts, to her own benefit. She had never touched him like this. 

Mycroft was finding all the paths to driving Greg insane, inventing ways to make him react, to watch him respond. He seemed proud when he coaxed a gasp or twitch from Greg, and it only inspired him onward. The man was diabolically inventive. He was inspirational, too, as Greg was incited to his own experimental explorations.

“Do you suppose,” Mycroft whispered in his ear, “that you could remain very very quiet?”

“I suppose I could,” Greg replied. “Push our stuff against the door. It doesn't really lock.”

Door blocked, Mycroft came back, taking his clothing off piece by piece and Greg was inspired to scramble up and do the same. They were soon entangled, and very very quietly went about finding more ways to coax pleasure from each other. When Greg found himself prone, with Mycroft's long cock between the cheeks of his arse, all Greg could think about was that he really wanted Mycroft inside...and it would have to wait for a time when he was able to make a little noise. And then he wanted equally to worm his way into Mycroft's tight little behind. Just thinking the thought pushed him over the edge.

They slept for awhile, and then were up after midnight to unblock the door, to shower, separately unfortunately, and then tidy their bedding and cuddle up again. Greg was growing used to the feeling of the longer body behind him, liked how Mycroft's arm fell forward over his waist. Breath on the back of his neck bothered him, but he only shifted away enough to lessen the effect. 

He had intended to wake up before seven, but they hadn't gotten as much sleep as he had originally planned, and it was about seven-thirty when the sound of steps on the wooden stairs caused his eyes to flutter open. He was hardly awake when the door burst open and a chorus of feminine voices shouted, “Surprise!”

He jerked up onto one elbow, eyes wide. Behind him, Mycroft pushed himself up on one long arm—the other was still draped across Greg;s waist. 

In the doorway, his ex-wife stood, her eyes and mouth round. On each side of her and slightly behind, his daughters peered over her shoulders. Lydia was already starting to giggle, she had the most appalling sense of humour. Lara had both hands over her mouth and was making an odd 'acking' sound.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. He felt Mycroft's hand sliding down to his abdomen, spreading wide, holding him in place. He imagined how they must look, with their chest hair, his almost as silver as his head, Mycroft's darkened ginger, their morning stubble, their tired eyes. Age-rounded edges. He held the mingled scents of their bodies in his nose and wondered if the intruders could smell it. Smell what they had been doing.

His ex-wife looked fresh, neat, her dress of sunny yellow still crisp. So they had stayed the night at a hotel nearby and got up at dawn in order to be here to wake him up. Or just for breakfast. She had wanted to put him at a disadvantage but instead was frozen in place. But he could tell as her eyes darkened that she was recovering fast, that she was going to let lose with one of her famous tirades as soon as she could translate her boiling emotions into words. However, that hot anger which she had hurled at him so often didn't get past her lips.

“Get. Out.” Mycroft's words were like steel, sharp, piercing. “And shut the door,” he added, less cold but an order which could not be disobeyed. The three women stumbled back, and both of Lara's hands shoved the door shut, so that it slammed with a bang which probably woke up everyone in the building.

“They weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow,” Greg protested in a strangled voice.

“And I was supposed to receive a text when they left London.” Mycroft's words were mild but Greg was rather sure someone was going to get his balls handed to him. Or her. Mycroft reached for his phone, letting go of Greg to reach it. 

“Ah. Well, they did try,” Mycroft noted. “I seem to have muted my phone last night.”

Didn't want work to interrupt them while they were together? But...this was Mycroft Holmes. He didn't forget things. Which meant he didn't care if his ex and kids had seen them. They were saved having to contrive something similar this way. Still. He would have preferred to have had at least his pants on. He looked down at the red marks that covered his chest, and over at Mycroft's also-well-decorated torso and thought...Mycroft had wanted them to see. That only the truth and plain evidence of it would ever cause Annette to believe that Greg was involved with a man.

“Are you upset?” Mycroft asked tentatively, lowering his phone.

Greg let himself fall back onto his pillow. “Not nearly as much as I suppose I should be. Going to have to spend some time with my daughters, though. They deserve....”

Mycroft interrupted him. “Yes, they do. Let's get up, move our things to the tent and then join...everyone...for breakfast.”

A plan. It was good to have a plan. “You want the bathroom first?”

“Yes, and I'll be quick. You'll pack?”

“Right.” He put on yesterday's clothes and quickly began folding bedding, putting the mattress back up on the bed, getting clean clothes out of his bag. Mycroft's idea of quick was incredibly fast, and within ten minutes they were dressed and carrying the bags and bedding down the back stairs, out the door and into the tent. It had a lock on the zip, and Mycroft showed Greg the combination. They locked it all up again and headed towards the cooking tent.

Awkward. Really. Annette was slumped in a chair near the entrance, frowning with enough intensity to melt the tarp walls. Lydia was helping Popsy set bread and pastry on the serving table near the stove, and Lara was nowhere in sight. Every eye on the place was focused on Greg and Mycroft as they came in.

Mycroft surprised him by going over to Annette and taking the chair beside her. “Mycroft,” he said, introducing himself. “I'm sorry we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.” So polite, so reserved. 

She looked him up and down. “I could have done without the pleasure,” he told him rudely.

“I suppose that's true,” Mycroft said blandly. “But I suppose once you decided to come here, it was only a matter of time.”

“Why did you decide that this was a good idea?” Greg asked before she could says something else cutting. “We're divorced, for god's sake.”

“The girls,” she began.

“Are adults and perfectly capable of getting here themselves.”

“Well, I THOUGHT,” she said, “that we might enjoy some time as a family.”

“That's not what you thought.”

“I miss you. And being together as a family.”

“I'd believe that if you hadn't turned down every opportunity to do that. For the last year.”

“Seventeen months,” Mycroft interjected softly and damn the man for making him have to choke back a laugh.

She turned her attention his way. “You keep out of this, Myyyycroft,” she said, mocking his name.

It didn't bother him a bit. “Oh, surely I'm allowed to have some input. You're annoying my boyfriend.”

And didn't that put a sour look on her face. “And just when did that happen?” she huffed as she turned to Greg again.

“Fairly recent, that,” Greg admitted. “But it's going well. He's nice to me,” he said, in in a way that suggested that she wasn't.

She snorted. “I bet he is.” She made it seem completely vile.

Greg opened his mouth to throw a few scathing words back but Aunt Pat came up.

“Nettie, you keep your words civil, the kids will be coming for breakfast soon. You decide if you're going to stay, and if you stay, you'll be pleasant or you'll leave. The rest of us don't need to hear your opinions. About anything.” 

Annette turned red at the hated nickname and might have replied, but Mycroft interrupted by saying, “Gregory and I have moved into a tent. The room is available for your daughters,” Mycroft, his words mild, his smile still so polite. It was only vaguely implied that she was also welcome.

“If you stay, Aunt Pat said, “You'll help out, the way you usually don't, since I'm sure you didn't think to bring anything. First nasty thing, and you'll get in that little rental car you've got parked blocking the road, and you'll toddle off back home.”

Ooh, somebody had been wanting to say something for quite some time. She went on, “Eat your breakfast, and then I suggest you take a family walk and then talk. Mycroft is going to stay here and help me.”

Mycroft's eyebrow went up just a fraction, but then he inclined his head, saying, “It would be my pleasure, of course.”


	7. Seven

Greg found it a little difficult to get his breakfast down. He did his best, knowing that he’d be hungry later if he didn’t eat, but his stomach was in rebellion. He and Mycroft were at one table, the girls and his ex at the next table over. Close enough that he could interject if Annette said something out of line. She didn’t. She ate her breakfast, she complained about the cold wind, she glanced over at Greg—or was it Mycroft?--and made that little moue with her elegantly shaded lips. He’d thought it cute once. 

He’d have helped with the dishes but was urged out the door, his daughters behind him, his ex trailing last. Once outside he turned and asked his daughters, “Where do you want to have this?”

“We don’t have to do what that old harpy said. What’s there to talk about?” Annette asked. She was not meeting anyone’s eyes, but looking over the scenery as if she’d never seen it before.

“We could talk about how we never knew Dad played for both sides,” Lydia suggested. 

“Why?” her sister asked. “I don’t want to know about his sex life. Do you want him knowing about yours?” She got a ferocious glare in return. Made him wonder what was going on there, but now was not the time to ask.

Greg decided that he had to direct the conversation or risk having Annette take control. “Whose idea was it to dive down yesterday, spend the night in a hotel, and get up early in the morning to ‘surprise’ me?” He started walking towards the road, glancing behind to see if they were following. He didn’t want to have this conversation where anyone else could hear. 

The girls looked at their mother. Okay, that was clear enough. 

“We wanted to have breakfast with you. The way we used to,” Lara added. She started walking faster and everyone automatically began to pick up the pace.

“Your mother hates it here. She came to ruin the holiday.” Greg made it a statement, keeping an eye on Annette to track her reactions.

“We came because we wanted to go back to the way it used to be!” Lydia said in a rush. “We thought maybe if everyone had a good time, and you saw it was still...that you two might…”

“Get back together?” Greg sighed. “You know that won’t happen. We talked about it.”

Laura said, “And we’ve talked to Mum. She’s sorry! She made a mistake!”

Getting their daughters to speak for her was part of the plan, Greg realized. He was going to have to...have to….

“She made fifty of them.” Somehow, having that number made it easier to say.

“What?” Three voices blended as they said word at the same time.

“She cheated on me over fifty times. That I know of. So how sorry can she possibly be?” He walked a little faster himself, then forced himself to slow down and turned so he could make eye contact. He couldn’t. Both girls were staring at their mother, eyes wide. 

“What lies! What a filthy thing to say!” Annette gasped.

“There are videos.” Probably. “There are receipts. The P.E. teacher—that wasn’t even well hidden. That’s what I see when I look at you now. Wondering why a late night school “meeting” with the P.E. teacher was worth more than our family.”

He watched his daughters. Saw when they each realized the truth. Because there had been a lot of those late night meetings. “Annette, you don’t belong here, you don’t like it here. I don’t want you to spoil my holiday with the girls. You see them all the time. You’ve worked hard so that they don’t get to spend much time with me. But you’re trying to ruin even this.”

“But you brought HIM,” Annette countered. “So how much time were you thinking of spending with them, humm?” 

“As much as they wanted. And before you insinuate anything else, I want to say that I never cheated on you—with anyone of any sex—until we’d been separated for two months and I knew it was over.”  
He said to his daughters, “We kept things from you. About how bad it was getting. Maybe we shouldn’t have, but who wants their kids to get caught in the...in something so negative. Who wants their kids to have to choose sides or be hurt? But I see now that all I did by not letting you know my side of it is that all you’d hear is hers. And your mother is the queen of lies. Even when she tells the truth she slants it toward her own benefit. Everybody does, to an extent, but I never understood it until it was all over how much her version of everything influenced our lives.”

He took deep breaths, surprised it had all come out like that. That he had broken the patterns of their arguments, of hiding bad things from the kids, of long fights with no results. It was because he’d recently talked it out with Mycroft, he realized. He’d been able, finally, to have enough distance to look at the entire situation with a clear head.

He turned away from Annette to say to his daughters, “I hope I haven’t ruined the weekend by telling you now. Maybe I should have waited, or said it some other way. If you want, you can go back with her. I’ll set up another weekend, we can join one of the other branches of the family, get to know them, but have more time. A weekend where Mycroft and your mother won’t be there, if you want just us. If you stay here now you can get to know Mycroft a little.” You can compare how he treats me with how your mother does, he thought. Because now that he thought about it, Mycroft had a way about him which left Greg his respect. “You have to treat him decently and he’ll do the same,” he thought to add. 

He smiled, because it could be that Mycroft was just a better manipulator, a master at the art who outclassed Annette in all ways. He thought, but didn’t say, that he was perhaps presenting a Mycroft that didn’t really exist, making him too nice when he knew Mycroft could be the biggest bastard on the planet. But it felt better to say it. He felt better. 

He watched almost detached, as Annette began damage control. “You’ve made it all so simple, haven’t you? Left out all the times we were left alone while you...worked late. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t a woman or a man, you still didn’t give us the attention and time you should have. You can’t blame US if we got tired of waiting for you to show up. Yes, I knew about your job from the very first, but I didn’t understand! I didn’t know it meant Christmas morning without you there.”

He interrupted, “That was once!”

“Once too often, Mr. Supercop. Mr. ‘Sorry, they’ve called me in,” ten times a week!”

“You’re right. I lost my perspective somewhere, let the job become more of my life when I should have been cutting back. We got off track. I would come home and no one would be there. Or you’d each be behind a closed door. We lost the ability to act like a family because we each developed different interests, and we each reacted to a bad situation in a way that didn’t make it better. I don’t know what came first, the chicken or the egg, but it made a terrible mess when it all came to a head.”

He took a deep breath and said, “We’re not going to be able to get it back again. What was before. We’re never having a Christmas or a birthday when we’re all together unless it’s only for an hour or so in a neutral location. But everybody here is an adult,” He saw the girls startled response to that but it was true. They were old enough to be treated like they were adults, because it was no use trying to think of them as little kids any more.

They were walking along the sea path now, with the wind in their faces and the birds calling along the shore. He stopped and faced them, saying, “Lara. Lydia. Take a long walk, just the two of you, talk about it, make some decisions. Annette, I know Pat offered to let you stay, but you shouldn’t. I don’t want the rest of the family to have to put up with comments and digs. I don’t want any of them having a go at you, either. Take a walk, come back, have lunch with us and then go.” He paused and then said, “Or just go. Your car is blocking the road, and more of the family are going to be arriving soon.”

The implication at she was in the way and not family rolled off her back, but she never had liked being told what to do. “Don’t you talk t…” she began, but he held up his hand and took a step back. 

“I’m sure you’re going to tell all your friends about my boyfriend and how I must have cheated all along and how no wonder the marriage didn’t work. I can’t stop you. You’ll need to play the victim to feel better. But for the sake of the kids, try not to blacken my name too thoroughly. I’ve never played the police card, always thought those who did so were going low, but don’t try to cause problems for me at the Yard in order to get back at me.” He left the implication that it would go bad for her unvoiced.

He looked over at his silent daughters. “And don’t lie about me to the girls because I’m telling you now, the girls can come to me with anything you say or imply and say, ‘Is that true?’ and I will give an instant and truthful answer. It puts them in the middle, and I went out of my way to keep them out of it, but I will not let bad communication get in the way of my relationship with them. Not ever again.”

He stood there, waiting. No one said anything. The breeze shifted direction, bringing the sting of salt.

Lara said to her sister, “We’re going to the beach,” grabbed her hand and dragged her back along the path until the other girl finally shook loose. A few minutes later they were out of sight. 

Annette was facing the ocean, arms crossed. She looked good, hair in the breeze, which also pressed her clothing against her, showing off her figure, which had always been impressive. The sight didn’t move him.

Eventually she spoke. “I don’t understand. He’s not even good looking. He must have money.”

“Probably. I don’t know. He’s not showering me with gifts and wild nights out, if that’s what you mean.” He smiled. Unless you counted a couple of BBQ grills. 

“In fact, he’s ugly. Must be good in bed. I suppose there ARE some things I couldn’t give you,” she said with a smirk. She was really good at implying that those things were filthy and wrong and no decent person wanted anything like that. Which was ironic considering how adventuresome she liked to get. Maybe that was the problem. He got older, and no longer wanted to see how many times he could come in one night, or how many ways it could be done on a trapeze. That had been their tenth anniversary at the special hotel in France. Memorable, but looking back on it, he’d just been an actor as they played out her fantasies. 

If he tried that now he’s put his back out. He wondered how adventurous Mycroft was likely to get. It distracted him for a moment and they both stood there, listening to the sea and the distant sound of shouts and voices calling back and forth.

Finally he took a deep breath, nodded, and left her behind. She started walking almost as soon as he did, but he didn’t let her catch up, his longer legs allowing him his escape.

He went to the kitchen tent where he’d left Mycroft, but he wasn’t there. Another round of breakfast was being served; there were two new cars parked out by the truck. He got caught up in the greetings, saying hello, exchanging the occasional hug or handshake. Aunt Pat finally snagged him from the crowd and drew him aside. “Mycroft got drafted to help unload the wood Sean just brought. They’re carrying it up to the bonfire in slings Sean made, and Sean wanted to do it now so he can get it covered as soon as possible. It might rain this afternoon, he said.” Her tone said she doubted it, but hadn’t bothered to argue. “Since you’re here, you can help me with the toast.”

So he converted two loaves of bread into four towering stacks of well-buttered toast, and snagged one piece for himself as the other slices vanished at an incredible pace. It wasn’t the good bread Mycroft had produced, Pat was probably saving that for later. 

He was still there helping with the washing up when Mycroft ducked in the door. Flushed after exercise was a good look on him, although it was plain that Mycroft himself didn’t thinks so; he looked mildly embarrassed. He stopped in front of Greg and said, “If you don’t mind, I shall absent myself until the next meal. I believe you have a conversation to have with your children, and I have found an excellent place to...meditate.”

“That’s...fine,” he told Mycroft, while searching his face to signs of any other meaning to the words. Finding nothing, he decided to take it at face value. “Be careful, then. There’s lots of ways to fall out there. Had to pry Uncle Toby out of a crevice a few years ago.”

Everybody remembered that. There was a muffled snort from the table nearest them.

“I shall take care,” Mycroft assured him, and without saying anything else, he was out the door. The man could move quickly when he wanted to. It was sexy, Greg decided. He went and dried the last three pans and then headed towards to beach.


	8. Eight

He found Lydia sitting on one of the chairs, staring out at the water. She was the oldest there, at least until he showed up, and so had probably claimed the seat without any arguments. 

“Where’s Lara?” he asked, easing down onto the other chair. 

“Went to unload her rocks before Mum could take off, but she never came back.” She sighed and said, “She didn’t want my help. I think she just wanted to think. By herself. Says she thinks better alone.”

Before he could reply to that, she said, “You should have told us.”

“I’m sorry.” What else could he say. He was. Very.

“Why didn’t you? Keeping your mouth shut just made it worse.”

Her voice accused. He tried not to respond as a parent with any trite words about her tone or her attitude.

Eventually he sighed and said, “It’s hard on the male ego. Not being...enough.”

She made a small sound that wasn’t actually a word and went back to watching the waves and the younger kids. It was a group of eight to ten year-olds, all of whom were behaving responsibly. 

They could hear voices echoing off the rock walls, coming closer, and he knew they would soon have more company. 

Lydia said, “This Mycroft.” Greg turned his face to her as she asked, “What’s he do?”

“Government paper pusher, he says. Something to do with transportation.”

“I can see that. He looks very...efficient.” It was obvious she’s changed her mind at the last moment about her word choice. He wondered what she had planned on saying. “He’s about as opposite of Mum as your could get.”

Well, that was true enough. A small laugh escaped before he could stop it. “He’s special. I don’t know if I have what it takes to keep him,” he admitted. He was realizing that he didn’t want this to be just a dirty weekend. A fling. He wanted to see if he could keep a man like that interested.

“I’m staying,” Lydia told him as the group coming down arrived with a bust of laughter. “No matter what Lara decides.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I’m going to find Abby and invite her to share the room, so I can keep it even if Lara goes.” She was gone, edging behind the newcomers and vanishing up the steps at a trot. Noticing it might be needed, Greg gave up his seat as well, following her at a more moderate pace. 

To his surprise, Mycroft was standing at one of the grills near the kitchen area. He and Donar were each wielding the tools of the trade, turners and forks, and the scent of cooking meat drifted toward Greg in the breeze. 

“I’d ask if you needed any help but it looks like you two have everything in hand,” he said from behind Mycroft. He had the impulse to kiss the back of the man’s neck, but it wasn’t really the sort of public display he thought Mycroft would like. Also he knew better than to startle a man holding a sharp pointy object.

“Quite so, but could you obtain a platter?” Mycroft asked, giving the nearest burger a poke to center it over the heat just a little better.

“Coming up,” he said, and went to fetch it. The dining area was almost full. He didn’t see Lara or Annette, and didn’t know if that were good or bad. When he approached them, he heard Donar explaining that he and his family could not stay for the bonfire, and there was genuine regret in the man’s voice. 

“After the meal, we must go. My wife, she is putting the things in the car and doing the preparing to go.” He must have seen something in Mycroft or Greg’s face because he waved his turner at them and said, “She won’t let me help. She says she can find nothing nothing nothing if I do the packing up and placing things in the car.”

Greg nodded solemnly and tried not to laugh at the indignant look on the other man’s face. Meanwhile, Mycroft was filling the platter efficiently, so that both grills were almost empty. “Do deliver these and bring the next?” he asked, while moving the few remaining burgers to the edge. Donar was watching him and then doing the same.

“Yous to command,” Greg said, and then froze for a moment when he saw a flare of...something take over Mycroft’s usually placid features. He moved a few things on the table to make room for his tray and got out of the way fast. The next platter of raw meat was waiting for him to take to the grill. He also saw his girls were both there now, and nodded to them as he made his way back out.

“Did you volunteer or get press-ganged?” he asked as his mouth passed Mycroft’s ear. He got an elbow in his side for it, and he retreated to the tent and the tables, joining his daughters, who had a bag of crisps between them so they could nibble while waiting. He took one as he slid in beside Lara.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked. Vinegar. His favorite. Well, one of them.

“She left. I almost didn’t get the rest of my rocks out of the car!” Lara complained. 

“Just how many rocks did you bring?” Greg asked, reaching for the crisps again and  
snagging a handful this time.

“Three buckets. It isn’t that much, only they’re heavy,” she complained. “All our stuff was just there in a pile. I had to take it up to the room myself,” she added, with a speaking glance at her sister.

“I’ll help you carry down the damn rocks,” Lydia said with a sigh and an eye roll.

Greg opened his mouth automatically to chide her about the language and then shut it. Adult. Almost. And he knew she said worse when he wasn’t around. 

“Your Mycroft’s cooking,” Lara observed, looking out through a gap in tarp wall. 

“Keeping Mr. Mitchell company, I would guess.”

“Is he related to Mycroft?” Lara asked. “Or, is that why Mr. Mitchell is here?”

“Just a friend who needed a place to stay for a night or two. His wife and little boy are around. They’ll be leaving soon, just after lunch, is my guess.” As he spoke he saw two in question hovering at the entrance. He waved them over. He made introductions, found a cushion for boost up the young boy, and fetched drinks, then offered to go get food if they didn’t want to stand in line. The offer was gratefully accepted and after a few inquiries as to preferences, he went and joined the line. His girls went next. Greg didn’t get his own food yet, he was waiting for Mycroft. 

It was almost an hour before the last burger was off the grill and Mycroft and Donor joined him in the back of a very small line. Making their choices from the sadly depleted offerings, they still sat down with heaped plates. His girls left, calling that they would see him later as they went out the door. 

It was frustrating to sit beside Mycroft and listen to the professionally friendly voice talking to someone else when he wanted that attention for himself. He forced himself to listen to the words and not the sound of that lovely voice. He learned that Mr. Mitchell had had a grand time, in spite of the fact that he apparently he taken a hike earlier and hadn’t followed the advice to stay on the path and had a small tumble down a rocky slope , He was none the worse for wear. His son, who obviously took after his father, had a slightly skinned knee. The boy was showing his father a stone he had picked up.

“Yes, we will take a last walk and put it on the wall,” his father assured him, and turning to Mycroft, explained that the boy liked the idea of building walls very much and they had been there several times with rocks the young boy had found.

They all ended up going down together, stopping to put the rock into place just so, then down to the beach for a few moments of exploring before hiking back up again. It took most of half an hour for a last minute check to be sure nothing had been left behind, for more thanks and keep-in-touch conversations before they finally waved at them as the small car trundled up the road.

“I’m glad they enjoyed themselves,” Greg said as the car went out of sight.

“Too much, I am afraid,” Mycroft murmured, but only shrugged when Greg gave him a questioning look. “I know you need more time with your daughters. And I never managed my meditation. Shall we part here and meet back for the evening meal?”

“We could sneak over to our tent for awhile,” Greg countered.

“Tempting, but given the number of people now wandering about, probably unwise. Lara,” he added, with a nod of his head, “does need your attention.” Greg saw his daughter waving at him.

“Later?”

“No doubt.” Mycroft stepped back and was gone.

Lara slipped her arm into his and said coaxingly, “Three buckets, and if you help one of us doesn’t have to make a second trip.”

So he went and carried a bucket of surprisingly heavy rocks to a ‘secret’ dumping place. Lydia didn’t stay. Greg crouched down and watched as Lara sorted colors and sizes and didn’t look at him.

Eventually he said, “Lydia and I talked. Do you want to? One on one or all together, your choice.”

“I’m still thinking about it,” Lara said, belligerently. 

Ah. “I’m glad you stayed.”

“Turns out I didn’t have much of a choice,” she reminded him bitterly.

“You do. You don’t have to stay here. I can get you to a train. Stay with one of your friends, or…”

She interrupted. “I don’t want to leave. It’s...she didn’t really want to spend time as a family.” The discovery obviously rankled. 

He nodded, not sure what to say. 

“I’m not sure what family is any more,” she said, throwing one of the rocks aside, hard. She inhaled deeply and finally looked at him. “I’ve been so mad. At you. I didn’t have to be, you could have said something.”

“Then you would have been mad at her. And you had to live with her, after all.” He hadn’t thought that through, but now that it came out of his mouth he realized it was true. He’d made the effort to keep things smooth for them, even when it made things worse for himself, or caused him some difficulty.

“Could we come live with you?”

“You’ve seen my place.” It was a postage stamp.

“So I’m stuck for another year. At least Lydia can go as soon as she gets a job.”

Greg thought his oldest had planned for more schooling. He felt so out of the loop, out of their lives.  
“You could visit me more.” 

“Bet your Mycroft would love that!”

“His job includes travel. He keeps odd hours. You don’t have to be at home when he’s visiting there you don’t want. I’ll have time for you.” And they were not at all at the stage where it came into play. A fake relationship of two days was hardly anything on which to base a future. For all he knew, one weekend was all of him Mycroft could stand. 

“Mum said there was somebody at work. That’ why you were always there.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.” 

She sighed. Mentally, he did, too. “They didn’t talk about you at grandmother’s birthday party. Everybody just ignored the divorce.”

Not in front of his daughter, anyway. He hadn’t found himself missing any of his ex-wife’s relatives. Or their events. “They will at the next one,” he guaranteed. It made her laugh. 

“There’s the bonfire tonight,” she said. The favorite part of the holiday for all of them.

“Lots of wood this year. Enough to ave one tomorrow night, too,” he assured her. 

She changed the subject. “Aunt Pat gave me the choice of helping set up for supper or clean up after. “

“Hard choice?” he asked. She hated all kitchen chores and cleaning in general. “You think about it. Do you want me to stay, talk to you while you...” he gestured at the rocks. At her expression he laughed and said, “I’m going to hike for an hour. Mycroft is off thinking. If you see your sister, tell her we’ll see her at supper?”

She gave a nod. He gave her a pat on the shoulder and stood up slowly, letting his back ease. He glanced behind several time as he walked away. It hadn’t been a conversation that really went anywhere. Yest it was something in the right direction.

He was rather at loose ends, and so went to use the loo and then went down to the small beach, which was rather crowded. They really did have to divide the group, but it felt like the end of an era. Whatever happened next year would result in new combinations, new traditions, new faces. He smiled as he had an odd thought. He should put Mycroft in charge of negotiating which family went with which group. It might keep the hard feelings at bay. Because he was sure there would be some. 

He ended up with his socks off, dabbling his toes in the water with a four year old and later holding her above the water while he supported most of her weight. She laughed up at him, giggling madly when the waves kissed her toes. It brought back won derful memories. He ended up carrying the child all the way up to her father, wet shoes in hand. At least he wasn’t the one who would have to wrestle a four year old into dry clothing!

He went to the tent for dry socks, then down to help with the meal preparation. He cut carrots and fixed a broken table leg. He got coals started in the brick grill, and thought of Mycroft fixing it. As he poked and prodded the fire until it was going well, he was mostly thinking about Mycroft. By the time the meal was ready there were almost sixty people gathered, and the kids were evicted from the chairs to sit on the pillows and blankets while the adults gathered into clusters and talked.

No girls. No Mycroft. He waited, and eventually the girls came in together. The three of them got their food and he sat eating, but keeping an eye on the door. Mycroft finally came in when the meal was almost over. The girls were already gone and they had a table to themselves. Mycroft got his food and slid into the seat across from him.

“Everything okay?” Greg asked cautiously. 

“Quite fine. You’ve gotten some sun,” Mycroft observed as he picked up his fork.

Greg looked back at him carefully and replied, “and you must have meditated in the shade.”

“I did. I also hiked to the north.”

“Hiked isn’t the word to use if you went north. Mountain climbing, more like.”

“You exaggerate. But there were some fine views.”

Those would be much higher, away from the shore. Greg didn’t bother saying that the north was discouraged as too dangerous for most of the family, and that he’d never gone far that direction himself, except to block off hazards. Always too busy or with his kids.

“As long as you got what you needed.”

Mycroft gave a bare nod and changed the subject. “Do we need to prepare for the bonfire?”

“All taken care of. Oh, hell.” At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow he said, “Someone I need to talk to.” He waved at the grumpy looking man who had just come in.

“Ah. Negotiations. I shall not keep you. I’ll be at the bonfire if we don’t connect before.” When Greg opened his moth to protest again he was waved away, so Greg trudged off to meet his doom. In this case, Uncle Pete. Who plainly already had this third beer. Or fifth.

Half an hour of conversation with him actually helped him sort things out. Pete had no intentions of being in charge of anything or signing himself up for actual work. In fact, he spent most of the time telling Greg how great he’d be at ‘taking charge of all this rot.’ They ended up going out into the twilight and climbing up the path to the bonfire together. 

The fire was started, but it was still small. Mycroft and Ben were helping to maneuver a large log onto one side. He looked for the girls. They were already seated on the far side in the middle of a clump of the older kids. He remembered when he and his wife had sat on...that stone there, the girls leaning against their knees, marshmallows on long toasting forks and each with an adult to see that nothing went wrong. 

He climbed over a few knees to a place on what might be called the second tier, on the south side, leaving the close in spots for the families with young kids. 

Mycroft joined him. The heat from the fire clung to his clothing, warming Greg as he sat down beside him, moving in close so that their thighs touched.

“Having fun?” Greg asked.

“If you think fun includes interfering with how someone is performing a task.”

“Can’t abide seeing something bungled?”

“No need to cover the spectators with sparks,” Mycroft agreed. 

“Well, I thank you, anyway. There’s a first aid kit over there under the bench if we need one, but avoiding the burns and screams is one of my nightly goals.” 

“Excellent qualities in a leader. Your negotiations went well?”

“Uncle Pete would rather tear out his toenails than take the lead in anything except the dash to the buffet table. I suspect the meeting tomorrow will be shorter than I thought.”

Mycroft eased a little closer. Greg’s arm went behind him for balance. Cold at his back, warmth from the flames growing in front of him and warmth from another type of flame radiating out from his side. He just sat and enjoyed the feeling, watching as more and more of the family joined the group. Someone started a song.

Sometimes in the past he had joined in the singing, but Mycroft wasn’t, and so they they sat, a small patch of silence amid the blending voices. As it got darker, Mycroft seemed to move even closer, Greg’s arm eased down until his hand rested on the top curve of Mycroft’s lovely arse. Eventually, Mycroft’s own arm snaked behind Greg. Warm fingers randomly rubbed and stroked up and down Greg’s lower back. 

They were far enough back from the fire that it didn’t blind him and he could keep an eye on the girls. Mycroft was keeping his own eyes on the fire, getting up to help every time a log needed to be added. Then he’d return, sliding into his place beside Greg, smelling of woodsmoke and the sea air. 

After two hours Greg remembered why he had brought a pillow last year. He also noticed that the group of teens had rearranged themselves. His daughters were now sitting next to boys. He hoped they’d remember certain talks he’s had with them in the last few years. He’d kissed his own share of cousins in the past. He was remembering more details of his own antics and eying the lads next to his daughters with some concern when Mycroft whispered to him, “They’re fine.”

Why did that make him relax, and stop worrying?

The families with younger children left first, parents gathering up kids and clothing, drifting off down the path with calls and warnings, torches creating dancing white lights among the rocks. The older members went next, and Greg stood up to follow. In other years, he had waited until the end, helped put out the fire at midnight. Tonight, he had other plans. He realized that for the first time he was leaving before his daughters. He waved to them and didn’t even look back. He was learning to let go, he told himself.

They walked down the path slowly. Mycroft used his phone to light the way, and they wended past the communal areas, and down and around the building to their tent. It took only a moment for Mycroft to deal with the lock and door flap. They ducked in. A small light came on automatically. His things were on the right side of the tent and Mycroft’s on the left. In the middle was a foam mattress about six inches high, covered with his own sheets, and with Mycroft’s blankets carefully laid out. When had Mycroft had time to do that?

Mycroft had gracefully eased down and was delving into his bag. “Would you like to go first?” he asked, inclining his head towards the exit, and Greg leaned over to get his kit and agreed just because he needed a few minutes alone. There was a line for the bathroom, and he tried not to show impatience, chatting casually. No one was behind him, so took a moment to scrub a few things twice before he hurried back. Mycroft was standing outside the tent and they exchanged a glance but no words before Mycroft held aside the flap of the tent for him. Mycroft didn’t make any sound as he made his way down the path.

When Mycroft was back inside the tent he knelt, fastening the door, and said dryly s he looked up, “You will note there is absolutely no way someone can enter without adequate warning.”

Greg, who sat cross-legged on the mattress, laughed, and watched as Mycroft slid off his shoes and then padded over to lean down and place a kiss on Greg’s upturned mouth. It wasn’t quite on the center and they both laughed. 

Mycroft said, “The tent is not soundproof, but there is a white-noise device that can be activated. It hides most conversation at usual levels and is useless against...louder vocalizations.”

“So we have to be quiet.”

“Very,” Mycroft said, and captured Greg’s mouth with his own. With his other hand he put out the light and flicked on the white noise unit. Greg’s eyes adjusted and he found it wasn’t entirely black inside the tent. There was a diffused glow in the yellow range that came off the walls. Enough to sleep, but also enough to see where the light switch was, and to be able to see the door zip. Just enough to see Mycroft’s eyes as he broke their kiss, changed angles, and began another one. Greg’s arms went out and folded around the long body, pulling it down on top of his without breaking the kiss. Mycroft began shifting his lips along his chin, then down to his neck, tongue lasting him. His hands were busy as well. 

They fumbled and laughed as each piece of clothing was taken off and tossed aside. It was close and intimate and fun in a way that sex ought to be, Greg thought as he rolled over to give Mycroft’s hands more access. The slide of naked skin against skin intoxicated him, mouth and hands. It was amazing, how different it was from the first night. Not in a bad way. In an exploring and learning and trying new things way. In a more-familiar-now way, which gave him confidence. Eased inhibitions. 

It was as if they weren’t in any hurry to come. They could take their time and play, or just rest for a moment, idly touching. He got to lick long swathes of skin and scratch through delightful chest hair and nose into each dip and hollow. Not once did he feel in any way self-conscious about it, for Mycroft was making his own explorations, and expressing his own delight in tiny murmurs and gasps. 

They ended up heads together, hands on each other’s cocks, breathing hard, coming with as much silence as they could, and eventually Mycroft handed him a damp cloth and they took turns each cleaning the other.

Greg slept. It was hours later when he woke up to a hand on his shoulder. Near dawn, he decided, for the walls looked different. He was thinking about going back to sleep when a long hand swept slowly down his back and settled on his arse. Hot warm breath settled near his ear, the rough voice asking, “May I?”

“Been years,” he warned, going slightly tense. He needn’t have worried. There was slow, careful preparation, there were warm, tender kisses, hands moving him into position, and when the moment was right, there was pressure and then the long slide he remembered, remembered he loved, that first piercing filling thick motion that left him panting and pushing up for more. 

He got more. He had never, in fact, been fucked so thoroughly in his life. Never felt it the way he felt it now. It was only when he was sated and aching and gasping did he realize it was probably been because they had neglected the condom. So unlike him. In fact, he’d only done it without when he and his wife were actually trying for children.

“It’s fine, Gregory. I checked your medical files and mine. We’re both been tested. But I should have asked. I was going to ask. I have them right here, but I...I….”

“Got carried away?” Greg asked, leaning so that he could gather the curled body to his. “Yeah, you probably hacked the physical I had last month.”

“And because of my travel, I am tested every month. I would not have put you at risk.” Greg could hear the guilt in Mycroft’s voice.

Greg said accusingly, “that’s how babies are made, you know.”

Who could have even imagined Mycroft Holmes could make that sputtering, inhaled laugh sound. Greg grinned into the dark.


End file.
